Things Go Bump
by Habeous Corpus
Summary: Sequel to Ruby Sights. The Special Crimes Unit is back, on an other-worldly plane. But, this time around, they have a little help from the people who filled their shoes. Together, they set out for Red John. Will they succeed, or will he get away again?
1. The Bump

**Disclaimer: If I owned The Mentalist, the beach scene in Redwood would have probably been topless. But I don't own it. **_**Damn!**_

**A/N—If you haven't read Ruby Sights, Do it nau-ggh! Or else, you will be sitting there going, "What the…"**

**Remember when I explained the body count? Well, I missed one! I bumped off someone in the beginning of the story and forgot to include them! XP It should be 21!**

**Chapter One**

Aisha Gleason sat in the bullpen of the Special Cases Unit. Paperwork surrounded her, and she was frazzled. There was lots of paperwork from this new case. Red James or something? Whatever. She thought she felt someone boring holes in the back of her neck, but she ignored it. She was alone, right?

Suddenly, a shiver ran down her spine. Whoever it was, they were getting very close. She turned around to see who exactly was breathing down her neck. However, she was met with an empty room. Gleason shook her head. Stuff like that was happening a lot lately. Two desks kept having objects left on them. Moreover, not just any effects, but specific things. Felix Farstall's desk had been looking a lot like a bookstore lately, but he swore up and down that the books mysteriously popping up weren't his. Oh, well. It could have been worse. Mina Saratago had food wrappers on hers! The strange thing was that it happened when no one was there. No witnesses, no nothing. Gleason and the rest of the team had a sneaky suspicion that Farstall was playing a joke on them. His body may be crippled, but his mind wasn't. He loved playing practical, harmless jokes on everybody, and had the luck not to get caught, ever. However, for all his silliness, Farstall was one of the better agents. You would always see him casing the crime scene, slowly wheeling himself around, taking in every detail. Richard Montlet, their boss, had confronted him about the strange occurrences; Farstall denied it.

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Now, if Aisha had been a little less absorbed in her train of thought, she would have noticed a fuzzy shape begin to appear on the old leather couch. However, she paid it no attention, and it faded quietly out of sight.

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**Love? Hate? Any suggestions? **_**REVIEW! **_**BTW, I am basing the new team off the old team. Personalities are hard to come up with! X-P But, if you want a sneak peek, look up the first names. They have meanings that pertain to the character! (Seriously. Do it, and validate all my hard work.)**

Thank you, Ebony 10, for betaing this chapter.


	2. The Things

**The Things**

"Come on. You can do it." The paper didn't do anything. "Not even a tremor? Come _on._" Jane concentrated even more. Eventually, the paper skittered across the tabletop. "Excellent. Now how about a hover?"

"Jane, it can't hear you," Van Pelt teased.

"Sshh. You'll break my concentration. Besides, people said ghosts weren't real, so how do you know it can't? Also, no one can hear me. It's about three in the morning for the living. Everyone's asleep." Van Pelt's response was a roll of the eyes.

After a few minutes, Van Pelt began to get bored. "Oh, step aside and let a pro have a crack at it," she laughed. With a clap of her hands, every piece of paper in the bullpen rose and flew around. It was a humongous paper vortex, with a redhead center. After a few revolutions, they settled back to their exact places.

"How come you can do that?"

"It's easy."

"I see that. How come it's so easy?"

Van Pelt smiled. "I've been dead longer."

Jane shrugged. "Well, it would be—" He was interrupted by the faint laughter of a little girl. Jane whirled around, searching for the source. Then he blinked out of sight.

Van Pelt sighed. "Well, there he goes," she said to herself. After a few seconds, he reappeared, very disappointed.

"It wasn't her."

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Four of five hours later, the special victims unit brought in a suspect for interrogation. His name was Gerald Stein, and he was accused of sexually assaulting three women. The officers weren't sure of his innocence, but they weren't sure of his guilt, either. So, while the agents decided on their line of questioning, Stein was left alone in Interrogation. At least, that's what they thought.

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Stein had his head down on the cold, hard table. _Why do they have to question me?_ He raised his head and rubbed his eyes. He looked into the one way mirror, and found an Asian agent behind him looking into it too. Their eyes met in the reflection, and then Stein whirled around in his chair to begin his statement. Except, there was no one behind him when he turned around. A cold shiver ran down Stein's spine. He looked back at the mirror. No freaky officer there, either. This was getting strange.

Then a middle age female agent entered. She sat across from Gerald, and stared at him for a few seconds. "So, Mr. Stein. How are you today?"

"Fine. And you, Agent…"

"Dawson. Taylor Dawson." She slid three photos in front of Gerald. Do you know any of these women?" He had never seen them before, which was a good thing. Maybe they weren't on to him, and he was just being paranoid.

"No, Agent Dawson." She slid them back into the folder, and pulled out three more.

"How about these?" Or, maybe he was in deep trouble. The three pictures were of his victims.

"No. Although I wish I did know the one in the middle, there," he joked, trying to hide his guilt.

"Uh-huh. Of course you didn't know them," a voice on his left said. Stein looked into the mirror, and the specter was back again. "Confess."

"Are we done here, Agent Dawson?" He had to get out of here.

"No, a few more questions." _Damn. _"Where were you the night of June 12?"

"At a restaurant with my girlfriend." Not far from the truth.

"Liar. Confess!" The stare the ghost gave in the one-way could have bored through steel.

A few scribbles on her notepad. "What about the 13th?"

"I was at home, alone."

"CONFESS!"

"And the 14th?"

He was hard-pressed for a quick alibi, so he had to say, "I don't remember at this time." That Asian guy had better shut up. He _could _get away with his misdeeds. And the ghost did quiet. Instead, he outstretched an icy hand, and plunged it into Stein's chest. Immediately, a wave of terror and nausea hit Stein like a brick wall.

"_Confess…"_ It was little more than a whisper, yet Stein heard it clear as crystal. He slammed a fist on the table.

"All right! I'm guilty, guilty, damnit! I assaulted those three women, and I enjoyed it!" The ghost retracted his hand, and Stein collapsed onto the table, shivering. Agent Dawson was very unnerved and chilly, too. That had been happening a lot lately. Suspects cool as ice, and then suddenly falling apart. Strange world…

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Richard Montlet was taking some hard-earned relaxation time. He had just finished every piece of paperwork on his desk, which is easier said then done. As he was lying there on the old sofa, he became aware of a draft. There had never been a draft there before, which made this new development even stranger. It was very strong, and soon had Montlet shivering.

xxxx

"Get off! I don't want to have to sit on this armrest for all eternity!" Jane nagged. This guy was on his couch! Richard made no reply, he just shivered. "You know? It's horrible to be dead sometimes."

xxxx

Montlet hated being cold, so he decided to make himself a cup of tea. He got up and headed towards the kitchen. As he rummaged through the cupboards in search of a box of tea, Montlet found a well-used green teacup. He didn't know of anyone else who drank tea, so he decided to use it. It didn't belong to anyone he knew.

After the water boiled and he dunked the teabag in, he started feeling hungry. Of course, he was always hungry. He retrieved an orange from the Frigidaire, and began slicing it. It took him maybe thirty seconds. However, his tea was stone cold when he picked it up. And he could have sworn there were ice crystals forming on the inside of the cup. Montlet shook his head and put the cup into the microwave to rewarm it.

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Special Agent Brecker, Organized Crime, had a wild night last night. Partying, women, and of course, lots of drinking. The wild night was part of a wild week, and the wild week was part of a wild month. He prided himself on being able to keep it from his superiors, and keeping the agents under his command under his thumb.

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"You disgrace! You drunken sot! How can you drink like that and be the best agent you can!" Lisbon was in rare form. She chastised Brecker all the way up to his floor. "And the way you control your subordinates with fear is _beyond_ pale. Oh, how I wish I could turn your sorry ass in for disorderly conduct."

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By the time Brecker got to his office, he had a pounding migraine, even though he took some aspirin before he left for work. One of his agents stopped him in the hallway. "Sir, are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just a headache. Don't you have anything better to do?" he snapped.

The young agent mumbled an apology and went back to her desk. As she walked, a little voice inside her head started up. _Turn his sorry ass in. _

_For what?_

_Disorderly conduct._

_Why? _

_The way he treats you—er, us. And he's a drunk, to boot!_

_You know what, I'm right! He is a jerk; I'll speak with someone tomorrow. _

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Carole Mensal felt as though the walls of the small CBI hallway would close in on her. "Damnit, Carole! Why can't you keep that brat under control?" Arnold Mensal fumed. This was no new development; it always seemed to be Carole's fault. Every time Ryan acted out, or money was short, or anything bad happened, Carole was punished. This time, Ryan had stolen a car and crashed it. If Arnold had been home, it wouldn't have happened, but Arnold didn't see that.

"Arnold, we are both res—" Her words were cut off by a stinging slap. This was also nothing new. As Carole tried to gather her wits, Arnold started to wheeze. However, this didn't deter him from his tirade.

"You are garbage!" Then he grabbed at his chest. He was severely wheezing, and his face was contorted in pain.

"Arnold?" He collapsed. "Arnold!" For a split second, Carole could have sworn she saw a heavyset, dark-haired man standing over Arnold, absolutely horrified. However, she was more concerned with helping Arnold than pondering that strange figure. Agents rushed to his aid, and within 10 minutes, they had him at the hospital. While Carole was in the waiting room, a doctor came to her.

"Miss? Are you all right? You have a large bruise on your face."

Carole looked at the woman. "Oh, I'm all right, it's just that I bruise easily. I'm fine," she said, discreetly pulling down her sleeves to hide the other marks. The doctor noticed this too, and persuaded Carole to come with her. Consequently, Arnold was discharged and taken into custody two days later on abuse charges.

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Gleason had heard about the whole incident from a friend. As she listened, she recalled a conversation between two men she had overheard in the kitchen later that day.

"_What the hell was that?"_

"_Did you see what he was doing to her? You would have fought him too!"_

"_That's not an excuse!" _

"_You've done much crazier stunts, man. And besides, he'll live."_

_A chuckle. "You're sounding more like me every day. Won't Lisbon be pleased? I have a 'me-clone!'" More laughter._

However, when Aisha had turned around to see who was speaking, there was no one there. She had just figured the speakers had already left. On the other hand, in light of this new information, she had to reassess her assumptions.

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**Please review so I can feel the love! :D**


	3. The Things Wish to Remain Anonymous

**A/N-- Okay, Refresher time: **

**Richard Montlet-Boss**

**Aisha Gleason- knows about the old team**

**Felix Farstall- wheelchair, getting book bombed**

**Mina Saratago- Getting wrapper bombed**

**William Mason- Succeeded Minelli when Minelli retired**

**The Things Wish To Remain Anonymous**

Gleason was getting very, very curious. She wanted to know more about this Lisbon person. Gleason had checked the active employee roster, but there were no Lisbons listed. So she decided to search past cases. She pulled up the CBI search engine, and entered her search.

?QUERY="Lisbon"; IN="Case_files"; ROLE="*"

After a few minutes, the search was complete. There were over 1,000 entries. She pulled up one, and looked for the word Lisbon. Agent Theresa Lisbon was listed as the arresting agent for a case involving a bomber that injured another CBI employee. All righty, she rubbed elbows with a few interesting people. She sorted the results by date, newest on top. The first on the list was a homicide case. This time, Theresa Lisbon was listed as the victim. This case file was linked in the database to 21 others. Gleason decided to pull them up. They were all attributed to this Red John guy. No wonder there was such a push to get it solved. From what she could gather, the old team consisted of five people. Four agents and one consultant. The consultant sounded like a real character. There were a few reprimands on his records from a Virgil Minelli. He was the boss, obviously. He was still alive; he quit 2 months ago, right after the consultant was murdered. Gleason decided to take her next day off and talk to him. She didn't know what else to do. Ghostbusters doesn't exist.

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Gleason raised her hand to knock on Virgil's door. She stopped herself, because she felt silly. What was she going to say? Gleason shook her head. She'd ask about the old team and go from there. She rapped on the door. A middle-aged man answered the door. "Are you Virgil Minelli?"

"Yes, Miss…"

"Gleason. Agent Gleason."

"CBI?"

"Yes, I'd like—"

"I have nothing to tell you. I told you people everything two months ago!"

"No, I'm not here for the case. I'd like to know more about the former Special Cases team. I'm doing a study on them." Which wasn't too far from the truth, she _was_ studying them. He eyed her with a stern look, and then softened.

"All right, come in. I'll tell you about them." Aisha stepped inside the modest establishment. He led her to the living room, and motioned for her to sit. "Well, I guess I should start with the arrival of Patrick Jane. When he came, he triggered a chain of events that led to their deaths. Now don't get me wrong, I don't blame him; I blame myself. However, he _did _start this. Jane was a consultant," he told her as she took notes. "But he was an officer in my mind. Deadly shot, fiercely loyal, infernally annoying…" He trailed off, lost in bygones.

Aisha gently brought him back to the conversation. "What about Lisbon?"

"Ah. Theresa was one of my best Special Agents. She was the boss of the team, highly matriarchal. It's my suspicion that she had it for Jane, and he had fallen for her. Those two got on like potassium and water! Which brings me to the other pair of lovebirds: Grace Van Pelt and Wayne Rigsby. Grace was a junior agent, lots of potential. Quiet, finding her way, yet strong. Rigsby was an arson specialist. He was a big teddy bear, but Lord help you if you screwed with him or a woman around him, because your ass was _grass!_"

_Aha. So Rigsby must have been the one who KO'd the abusive spouse,_ she thought.

"The fifth member was Kimball Cho. He was stoic, but around friends, he opened up. He'd follow Lisbon and the team to the ends of the earth. Another thing Cho was famous for was his excellent interrogation tactics: Kim's Stare of Death, we called it."

Aisha had plenty of information at her fingertips, because Minelli told her scores of things over the next few hours. He told her of crazy bomber boyfriends, origami frogs, tea, office relationships not begun, smiley faces, blind drivers (literally), cooks using too much butter, and numerous other things.

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When Gleason finally went out to her car, the sun was completely set. She really wanted to meet these people. Hopefully, she'd have her chance tomorrow. She put her notes in her satchel, and curled up in bed. Dreams of ghosts invaded her unconscious.

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"What's eating you, girl? Not Richard, I hope." There was an awkward pause. "Wow, that sounded _so_ wrong on _so_ many levels." Farstall pulled up next to Gleason's desk. "Anyway, what's got you on edge?"

"Nothing." _Great, just blurt it out so he'll get curious._

"Riiight." Gleason gave his wheelchair a playful nudge.

"Stop being annoying." Farstall just laughed and went off in search of his next amusement. Aisha realized that with him gone, the bullpen was empty. She had been itching to speak with the old team. Partly because she wanted to see if she was right; partly because they sounded like nice people.

"You know, I think he has a little crush on Mina, Mina Saratago. Kind of reminds me of Jane and Lisbon, huh?" Aisha couldn't describe the feeling that flooded through her next. It was almost as if her body was filled with helium. Slightly pressured, slightly floating, very strange. "Of course, if you disagree, please let me know. Oh, by the way, I talked to Minelli. He misses you guys." The helium feeling dissipated, and Gleason knew that she was alone in the room. She didn't know how, but she did.

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Things got quiet for a week after that. Too quiet for Aisha's liking. She decided to annoy them into showing themselves. Jane seemed the easiest target; his sore spot was Red John. Aisha felt horrible about this, but she had to know. Ghosts may be the stuff of dreams and horror films, but she assumed they weren't good to have around as permanent fixtures. Montlet was leaving for the day, and bid her goodbye. "Are you staying?"

"Yes, boss. I have some work to do."

"All right. Ah, thank you." He hurriedly left, and Aisha could have sworn that a blush was creeping up on his cheeks. She shook her head, and went back to her work. The CBI building was deadly silent, and the possibility of haunting just made it scarier. She took a deep breath to quiet her galloping heart. "So, I guess it's just you and me now, guys." Oh, Lord, she was so transparent. "You know, I was doing some research into you guys, and I found a file on Red John. Interesting guy, you know? He seemed kind of clever." The room warmed up by about thirty degrees. _Oh, that got his attention. _

However, Gleason could feel two others presences get stronger. A neutral, passive, and a warm, tender, submitting. It was almost as if they were keeping Jane in check. She thought it was Jane because he felt bubbly and fun, yet with a tinge of sadness.

She pushed on with her task grudgingly. "I'm surprised that you haven't caught him yet." _And now for the zinger:_ "Unless he's smarter than you." Immediately, the bullpen smoldered. It felt as if she was being roasted alive. Her head spun; the room swam. Voices began in her head, and got louder as she felt sicker.

"Calm down!" An even male.

"Jane, stop! You'll kill her! Stop!" A sharp female.

Just before she passed out, she saw three hazy figures. Then all was black.

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"Ma'm? Can you hear me?" A paramedic knelt besides her.

Gleason groaned. "Yes, I can. I feel much better now." She sat up with the aid of Montlet. "What are you doing here? I thought you went home."

"I forgot something, and when I came back, you were on the floor." Montlet sounded genuinely shaken and concerned. He continued talking as he helped her to her feet. "The room was so hot. I opened a window, and called 911."

The paramedic gave Aisha a final once-over. "You seem to be fine. The next time the room gets that hot, find a way to cool down." She turned and left. Montlet guided Gleason over to the couch.

"Really, I'm fine." Her eyes happened to wander to her right. There was someone sitting next to her. He was slightly transparent, but extremely lifelike. And very handsome, in Gleason's opinion. The way that waistcoat and jacket fell… He sat with his hands folded guiltily. He looked Gleason in the eyes, and then disappeared. "I think I'll go home now. The papers can wait."

"I was hoping you'd say that, Ai—Gleason." A slip of the tongue? He gathered his jacket and briefcase, and left. Gleason did a little tidying of her desk, preparing to go home. She heard a voice behind her.

"Well, she looks fine, boss." Immediately, Aisha spun around. There was another transparent figure. Judging from his appearance, this must be Cho.

"Kimball?"

He looked mildly surprised. "How did you know my name? You really _did_ talk to Minelli."

A red head popped up next to him. "Or she could have known you when you were alive." She turned to Gleason. "I'm Grace Van Pelt. You should go home and get some rest. We'll talk tomorrow." Then they both faded.

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	4. Goosebumps

**Disclaimer: If I owned The Mentalist, the beach scene in Redwood would have probably been topless. But I don't own it. **_**Damn!**_

**A/N—I'm making up most of the ghost stuff as I go along. And referencing Supernatural. Just roll with it. **

**Goosebumps**

Van Pelt stood near the microwave. "So, do you think Gleason will accept that last night was real?"

"Why wouldn't she? She can see us now, right?" Lisbon asked, trying to manipulate a coffee mug.

"You need to focus more, boss. Besides, you can't drink coffee. I know it's early in the morning, but quit it. Anyway, she wouldn't accept it because it was so crazy! I mean, let's face it. We're ghosts."

The coffee mug shivered a bit. "Then how did Jane get her to pass out?"

Van Pelt shrugged. "He got very angry," she told her, as if it explained everything.

"So how does Jane getting angry equal a black-out?"

Van Pelt took a deep breath. "Well, we are pure emotion. We directly affect our surroundings. That's how come Gleason can feel us. She's a bit more perceptive than the rest of the team. Saratago is too; she's just too afraid to admit it."

"Saratago?"

"Mina. The one who's smitten with Felix?"

"Oh. I don't blame her. He's handsome _and_ sweet."

"I heard that," Jane called from the couch.

Lisbon turned to Van Pelt. "And I care why…?" Van Pelt giggled at her retort.

"Aha! It's show time. Good morning, Aisha!" Jane told her cheerily. Van Pelt popped out of the kitchen to watch the fireworks, and Aisha ignored him. Instead, she took something out of her pocket. It was small and white.

"Oh, damn!" Van Pelt yelped. She disappeared. Gleason tore open the package and shook some granules into her hand.

"Van Pelt? What is that, salt?" Jane caught a slight smile on Gleason's face. She started to sprinkle a little bit on each desk. When she had run out of salt, then she reached into her purse, and brought out a large can of the stuff. She walked over to the couch, and opened up the container. She whipped it at the couch, and the entire area was doused with a handful of salt. Jane shrieked, and disappeared.

"Well, I'll be damned. Hollywood _did_ know what they were talking about for once," Gleason quipped to the empty room. Now that those ghosts were gone, she didn't have to be on edge. She had to warn the team, but she needed proof. If she couldn't back up her story, they would think she was batty.

Then she remembered the pictures they took when they were goofing off a few weeks ago. They had finished an absolutely nutty case, and had decided to blow off some steam. They found a used camera in Released Evidence that had never been claimed, so they had a jolly good time snapping photos of each other. However, when they looked at the pictures afterward, some had what looked to be smudges in the picture. Maybe they weren't smudges. Aisha sat down in front of her computer and uploaded the pictures. Then she began sharpening the images, trying to isolate anything that could help her case.

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Montlet came in at his normal time that morning. He always made it in before six, which was plenty of time to brew a pot of "road tar" and look semi human before the rest of his team got there at eight. However, this morning, he found Aisha at her desk, working furiously. "Let me guess, the paperwork was calling you in your sleep?"

"No." She paused, and took a gulp of air. "Ihavesomethingreallyimportanttotellyouandit'sgoingtosoundcompletelycrazy."

Montlet chuckled. "I'm sure that made sense in English."

"I have something really important to tell you and it's going to sound completely crazy."

"What would that be?"

"Actually," Gleason said while tilting her computer monitor, "I'd rather show you something first." She opened a picture that she had been working on.

Montlet was getting impatient. "A smudged picture. Aisha, are you sure you're all ri— Oh, crap. Who are _they?_" He had spotted the human-shaped shadows.

"This brings us to my point. We're haunted. That's why all these strange things have been happening, and why I passed out last night. I pissed off one of them." She bit her lip, waiting for the inevitable rebuke.

"I believe you. Lots of weird stuff has been happening to me. So, what do we do? Who are they?" Montlet was very concerned.

Gleason was surprised; she didn't expect him to believe her that quickly. "Well, they are the old Special Cases Unit. The ones that were massacred? We never met, and we weren't told any names in particular. I got information from word of mouth, and through research. And they seem to hate salt."

"Hmm. Are they hostile?"

"I don't know. I think so. But they're gone. I gave this place the salt treatment. And the annoying blond jerk shrieked like a banshee when I nailed him."

"All right, I think this is worth discussion. Either we need to call Ghostbusters, or a psychiatrist because we've both lost it."

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"Right. Next, you'll say that these 'ghosts' each have a pet unicorn," Farstall said acerbically. They were all sitting around a kitchenette table, drinking coffee. It was eight-fifteen, and everybody was (almost) ready to start their day.

As if on cue, the other three agents replied, "Shut up, Farstall."

Saratago spoke up, saying, "I think we should give their idea a chance. They deserve to be listened to. After all, we acknowledge your crazy ideas with no complaint." There were more than a few chuckles from around the table.

"Fine. I'm going to get some real work done." Farstall left.

Then Mina looked torn. "On the other hand, he has a point too. How do you know they are here?"

Aisha jumped at the chance to sell her viewpoint. "You know how food wrappers have constantly been left everywhere on your desk? Well, one of the old team members was notorious for his appetite, Wayne Rigsby. You sit in his old desk."

"And that couch that has the ever elusive draft? It was basically the consultant's desk," Richard added.

"You make a convincing argument. How about I split the difference and say the jury's still out?"

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The CBI building was cleaned every day, and the cleaning crew swept the floors as part of their jobs. The janitor noticed that there was a lot of salt in the Special Cases bullpen. She cleaned up as much as she could, and performed the rest of her duties.

It must have been the dark building, because she could've sworn that there was someone (something?) in the room with her. It wasn't Pat; he died a few months ago. Poor soul…

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Felix was getting coffee a week after that 'ghost rubbish' as he put it. The floor was sort of slippery, because the cleaning crew had just waxed the floors. There was also a small puddle of water, which made things even worse. Farstall decided that he was going to take advantage of the slippery floors, and have some fun. He started to skid short distances sideways, as if he was on ice skates. The third time he did it; he hit the puddle of water, and went flying across the room. He was just about to tip his chair over, when an unseen pair of hands grabbed him. Farstall hung at a critical angle for a few seconds, and then he was righted. The hands flew to his shoulders, and gave him a reassuring squeeze.

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"Let's not do that again, Farstall. Richard needs you," Lisbon said while giving Farstall a little squeeze.

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"Who is that? Who's there? Oh, dear; I'm going crazy. Felix, you've lost it." The sporks on the drying rack near the sink started to rattle, and Felix let out a yelp. "There are no such things as ghosts!" A woman's laughter could be heard behind him. "Oh, a lady ghost? I could get used to that." Silence. "So, what's your name? Can you speak?" More silence. Just then, Mina came in, startling him.

"Felix, who are you talking to?"

"Why did you call me by my first name?" Farstall countered, avoiding the subject.

"Not important. Who are you talking to?"

"Ahh…Myself. I'm talking to myself. I got to go do some paperwork." He dashed out.

Himself. Really? Saratago looked around warily, and then sighed. She was worried about her team. These ghosts, if they existed, could do them some serious harm. Mina had no idea what to do. At least Gleason bought them some time with the salt. Hopefully it was still in place.

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Two agents were chatting as they stepped out of interrogation. "Do I look Asian to you?"

His partner shook her head. "The guy killed four people for nothing. I wouldn't call him sane and rational. It doesn't matter if the creep thinks he saw a ghost, he confessed."

"You know, there _was_ an Asian guy who worked here a few months back. He was murdered. Betty dated him once."

The two stopped and looked at each other. "Nah," they said.

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Gleason was packing up her desk for the day when the mail boy thunked something on her desk, and gloomily walked away. It was an envelope with Minelli's return address on it. Inside was a sheet of paper.

_Aisha­­­­­­­–_

_I did some research; I know who you are. I know you've already moved on from the Red John case, but please continue the investigation in your spare time. For me, and for Lisbon's team. _

_Virgil_

Looks like she had her work cut out for her. She picked up her briefcase and went down to Filing to sign out some research.

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**1,649 words! YAY! *ahem* Anyway, thanks for all the reviewers. **


	5. Looking For Things

**Disclaimer: If I owned The Mentalist, the beach scene in Redwood would have probably been topless. But I don't own it. Damn!**

**A/N—And now for the introduction of two random characters. Or are they just average John Does? Could they be pivotal? Or is it a red herring? So many questions… I need to lay off the sugar. :D **

**Aside: Who would like to see Jane go all **_**Scanners**_** on RJ? (*raises hand*) And I used someone's idea in this. I don't remember who, but it was one of my reviewers'. Just send a helpful reminder. *-_-***

**Looking For Things**

Zelindo Montague and Clement Gonstan sat at a cheap diner, planning out their next actions. They were good friends in their own eyes. In other words, the relationship was seriously flawed. Clement was overbearing, cold as ice. The only reason that he felt anything was that Zelindo struck a few chords with him.

Zelindo was scarred from child abuse in his past. Clement's overbearingness gave him a sense of comfort, of familiarity. Zelindo didn't know that anything was wrong; he just accepted it as the way of the world. In many ways, Zelindo's world view was flawed. Everything he did, he did to please Clement, his one friend. He also protected Gonstan from harm; he was his guardian angel. He provided advice and helped Clement keep his head.

Montague loved to be artistic, and he loved to paint. Usually, he painted things for Clement. Clement actually appreciated the drawings, because they made him popular in many circles of people. Zelindo's artistry helped him take his hobbies to a new level.

If Zelindo was the moon, then Clement was the sun. Clement was a braggart and a loudmouth. His big mouth was always getting him into bar fights and hurting his chances for promotion. He was reckless and careless. Clement thought of the world as his plaything, and people as dolls to manipulate. There was no remorse; Clement felt no mercy towards the careers he had ruined during his quest to the top. Fortunately, Zelindo had more of a heart, and felt compunction for destroying people.

Clement scribbled a note on the sheet of paper they were working on. "How about that?"

"Well, what if that happened?" Zelindo made another mark.

"Okay. Then we're doing this."

"That's even more dangerous," Zelindo whined.

"Shut up!" Zelindo flinched at Clement's outburst.

"I just want you safe. I need you," he whimpered.

Clement chewed his lip. "Maybe if we attacked it from this angle…"

"That's a much better idea."

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Gleason was in Filing, looking for anything related to the Red John case that she could sign out. So far, all she had found was an abundance of paper cuts. After rifling through the cabinets in that stuffy room for a while, she felt she had to take a break. As she slumped in a chair, she heard a noise. A thump, to be exact. Aisha turned and peeked into the Filing room. The cabinets were opening and closing.

Thump. "Who's there?"

Thump. "I got rid of you!"

Thump. "Go away!"

Thump.

After the drawer had opened, a paper was lifted out. It sailed over to where Gleason was standing. "What's this?" To answer her question, spindly words appeared on the paper.

_Consider this a peace offering? _

"For what? Do all ghosts have issues with information sharing?" she griped.

_For what I did. I lost control, and hurt you in the process. This sheet is one that I hid for myself. I wanted to be able to review the case at my leisure. There are others, but I don't remember where. _

"Okay. Sorry about the salt."

_Yeah, can you not do that? It burned! Down my pants and __**everything**__. _

"Sorry. I thought you were malicious."

_No, we aren't. Just watch out for that guy on the Special Crimes floor. He was a suspect that died here. He's a bit of a badass. _

"By the way, why can't I see you now?"

_You can't see me because my spirit is confined to places that have meaning to me. Van Pelt says that I can talk to you now because I'm actually in your head. _

"Right. And that's not weird or anything…"

_Ghosts are weird. Take care._

"Patrick?" She received no response; the words had faded into the depths of the paper. She shook her head at the silence, and looked at the sheet of paper that she was holding. It was the case file to the very first Red John case. If she could predict Jane, then the other copies would be in the bullpen. But who could predict Jane?

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"Okay, was he tall?" The white rock trembled, and then the black rock trembled. Mina sighed. "Really? You can't answer yes-or-no questions?"

Farstall had to stifle a laugh. "Why the hell are you making them play with rocks?"

"Got a better idea, you fool?"

Aisha plopped down at her desk to join the rest of her team. "What are you knuckleheads doing?"

"We are trying to do a sketch. Unfortunately, no one can make a decision," Saratago sighed.

"A sketch? Of who?"

"Of Red John," both Rigsby and Saratago replied.

"Well, maybe I could help. What did he look like, you guys?"

Rigsby thought. "He was kinda wimpy lookin', you know?" Aisha relayed this information, and the sketch began to take shape. It looked pretty good, until Rigsby and Jane actually looked at the representation.

Jane crossed his arms in skepticism. "That's not what he looked like."

"They say that it's wrong," Aisha told Mina.

"I quit! I really do. Forget it." She tossed away her pencil and sat back.

"You know…" Felix began, "I could give it a whack."

"Good luck," Mina scowled.

"Thank you. Anyone ever heard of automatic writing?" Felix asked with a gleam.

"Isn't that when people write under supernatural influences?" Montlet asked.

"That's right." He took a sheet of paper and a pen, and settled himself. "Go for it, guys."

Rigsby turned to Jane. "What do we do?"

"Ah… I have no idea. I think he's slipping into meditation." He paused, deliberating. "In theory, we should be able to influence his thoughts."

"How do we do that, genius?"

Aisha harrumphed impatiently. "Anytime now, boys."

Jane ignored her, and continued with his reasoning. "Concentration and maybe a bit of possession."

Rigsby's eyes bulged. "Oh, hell no. I'm not possessing anyone!"

"It'll just be his hand," Jane wheedled.

"I don't care. The mind control stuff is your domain." Rigsby was still balking.

"Fine. I'll do it myself." Jane sat down next to Felix, and placed a ghostly hand on Felix. He started to concentrate.

Farstall's hand began to jerk around. Gradually, it became more controlled. Lines began to swirl on the page. A crude portrait of a man began to take shape. Rigsby looked over Felix's shoulder.

"Ah, much better."

Jane released his grip on Felix. "Yes, it's a fair representation. At least we have something to go by now."

Felix slowly reacquainted himself with reality. "Yowza, that was… creepy." He looked at the sketch with amusement. "You know, you and I could make quite the artist team." He spoke to an imaginary person on his right, while Jane was to his left.

"I'm over here, dimwit," he ragged.

"Be nice, Jane," Gleason chided. "He can't see you."

Felix only heard Gleason's side of the conversation. "I'm confused."

Mina jumped in. "He's standing to your left."

About half of the people in the bullpen, both dead and alive, instantly replied, "How'd you know that?"

Saratago shrank slightly in her seat. "Well, there's a… shimmer, I guess. I didn't know for sure."

Montlet looked impressed. "So we have two very perceptive people."

Farstall piped up, "Not to change the subject or anything, but how come Rigsby and Jane are the only ones who can remember anything?"

An awkward silence descended like a thick fog, enveloping all. Finally, Cho mustered the courage to speak. "I believe that Lisbon, Van Pelt and I are suffering from PTSD, or something like it. Rigsby… ah, didn't suffer."

"I was shot," Rigsby interjected.

Cho continued, "And as for Jane… Who knows?"

"Gee, thanks."

"What? It's true."

Jane sighed. "The reason why I can remember things is because of two things I did. Part of my hypnotist training involves self-hypnotization. I shut out the pain, to put it simply. And the rest? Unconscious memories."

Aisha passed along the information to the rest.

Saratago nodded. "That makes sense. Wait, you're a hypnotist? Oh, that's right. You were the loose cannon guy." A chilly wind tickled the backs of their necks. "Don't get snippy with me, boy."

"How about this: instead of bickering with dead people, let's circulate this sketch. It's all we have right now," Montlet commanded, taking the reins.

"Wait! If we do that, then we risk scaring Red John," Lisbon warned. "We don't want to risk losing him."

Aisha nodded. "I think Lisbon's right. We have to be incognito about the media coverage."

"Fine. Then we will issue it from another department for another crime. Anyone have an outstanding favor?"

Farstall perked up. "I do, for reasons I'd rather not share."

Montlet cast a sideways glance at him. "I'm almost afraid to ask." There were chuckles all around.

"Then don't. Seriously, don't. But have faith; it is an exceptional favor!"

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**Aggghhh! It's done! Against all odds, it's done! :D **

**Oh, Season Two is gonna be awesome. Especially with Bosco's body "Floating down the river." Go team!**


	6. Hang on Boy Its Going to Be A Bumpy Ride

**A/N—Oi, oi, oi. Life got in the way, so this update has been slow. I suggest rereading the last couple of chapters. And, All the awesomeness in His Red Right Hand is not here. Sorry. This is just post Season one Finale, people. **

**Hang on Boys, It's Going to Be a Bumpy Ride**

Richard flipped on the national news. The newscaster spoke in a dry, informative tone. "…All persons should be aware of this man." The sketch they had done a few days ago appeared on the screen. "This man is wanted for a rash of cybercrimes across the country. All tips are to be called in to the national tip line…" Richard turned off the television set, and directed his attention to Felix.

"I really would like to know what that favor was."

"Well, I caught a few agents fooling around, so to speak. They said they owed me, even though I insisted they forget about it," he explained, smoothing over a few "unimportant" details, like the fact Felix was about to go to their superior.

"So now what do we do?" Mina asked.

"We wait," Jane said in that patient air of his.

Waiting seemed to be all they had to do. The people of California were behaving themselves quite nicely. No one died, was kidnapped, or anything. Not even a lost dog! Agent Richard Montague, the Special Agent known for his paperwork load, ran out of paperwork to do.

Then, a crapstorm hit. Everything happened at once. There were three simultaneous murders, and they found themselves a hit on the Red John case. Richard talked with a few of his superiors, and another team took care of the homicides. Richard Montague, Felix Farstall, Aisha Gleason, and Mina Saratago focused on the Red John lead. Of course, they did not have a choice, what with their "guests."

The day that their suspect came in, it took the combined forces of Rigsby, Van Pelt, Cho and Lisbon to restrain Jane. If he had gotten into a tussle with a team of wild horses, the horses would have been thrashed.

"Get your hands off of me! That bastard—"

"Has not been interrogated yet," Cho grunted, wrapping his arms around the consultant's neck. "Control yourself!"

In the background of this melee, Farstall whispered something into Gleason's ear. She grinned, and nodded. As he crept off to the kitchenette, Gleason addressed the group of struggling specters. "Ah, let him go. Jane, the suspect is in Interrogation one."

Jane's emotions must have seriously affected his usually razor-sharp skills, because he bought into the lie. Instantly, the consultant's efforts became more frenzied. Eventually, by a stroke of luck, Jane tore himself from his coworkers' grasps. He barreled towards the examination room just as Farstall took his place outside the door of Interrogation 1.

Jane leapt through the door, ready to kill any living thing in that room. The split second after Jane had disappeared into the room, Gleason nodded to Farstall, and he began pouring salt in front of the door.

A few seconds, Agent Gleason heard cursing from within the small room. Then, a thump against the door. She and Felix both breathed a sigh of relief; the salt was working, as it should.

Felix decided to rub it in a little. "We put salt in front of there, buddy boy. And the room the suspect's in has salt around its perimeter, too. Tough luck!"

Both Saratago and Gleason could hear faint cursing. Then, everybody in the bullpen heard electrical crackling and a loud pop come from the room.

"Well, somebody's not happy," Farstall remarked.

Richard made a small break in the ring of salt around the examination room to allow Lisbon to come in with him. The pair stepped into the stuffy interrogation room. "So, what's your name?" he asked the man in front of him as he situated himself.

"Ah, Mark Gonstan, sir." He fidgeted nervously with his hands. After a few seconds of silence, his calm countenance cracked, and a torrent of emotions came spilling out. "I haven't committed any cybercrimes. I am no good with computers. I'd never hurt anyone!" he sobbed.

Montlet was unmoved by this display of emotion. "You're not here for cybercrimes, Mr. Gonstan." A ray of hope appeared on Gonstan's face. "You're here for the murder of almost 25 people."

Gonstan's sobbing intensified, and Lisbon seemed to be affected by it. She came around to the back of his chair, and put her hands on his shoulders. Gradually, Mark quieted and his eyes glazed over.

"Ah, Lisbon? What the hell are you doing?" Montlet demanded, looking around, unnerved.

"Ssh."

"Lisbon!"

"Ssh!" After a few seconds, she announced, "I don't think he did it. This isn't the same guy." She had forgotten that Montlet, unlike Gleason and Saratago, could not see her. Therefore, she decided to get her point across another way. Lisbon took a ghostly finger and wrote on the wall opposite the mirror, "He's Innocent!" It took almost all of Lisbon's concentration, but the writing conveyed her message clearly.

Montlet nodded. "Okay. I'll trust you." A pause. "You planning on snapping him out of this anytime soon?"

A couple of minutes later, Montlet stepped out of the interrogation room. He thought of the consultant, trapped in that little room. He felt a stab of guilt in his heart, so he went to go speak to him. He stepped outside Interrogation one, about to clear the salt away, but better judgment stopped him. Jane was hopping mad, so unleashing him would be akin to loosening the first seal of the Apocalypse. Therefore, he took it slow. Montlet tapped on the door. "Ah, Jane? Lisbon says he is not our guy. And, uh, she's pretty sure. I was gonna have you talk to her to, you know, compare notes or something," he called with forced cheer. Silence met his ears. He wasn't surprised, he could never hear them. It was still disheartening, though. Montlet sighed, heavy with sorrow, and started to sweep away the salt. When he was finished, Montlet turned and proceeded to the bullpen. After a few minutes, Jane quietly appeared on the couch. No one noticed him until he spoke.

"I really hoped he was the one." Jane's outward appearance startled Gleason a bit. He was dressed in a light charcoal suit, with a white tie. His normally unruly hair was gelled into place. However, the front of his crisp suit was stained crimson with blood. "I really did."

Lisbon looked crestfallen. "Jane, stop torturing yourself with the past. It won't do you any good," she pleaded.

Gleason stepped over to where Van Pelt was standing, if it could be called that. "Why'd he change?" she whispered.

"He's remembering his past. It kills us, but we all do it, whether we mean it or not. He remembers himself as he was in the memory. He assumes this form a lot," Van Pelt whispered back.

Jane scowled at the pair. "He's also _right here_!"

Just as he was about to continue bawling them out, Felix let out a whoop. "We interrupt this afternoon soap opera with an important message!" He paused for dramatic effect. "Mark Gonstan has an older brother that looks just like him!"


	7. Things Get Curious and Curiouser

Chapter Seven

Saratago explained for Farstall. "I managed to pull part of a file from our database. It was linked to Mark Gonstan's file because they are brothers."

Montlet immediately holstered his gun. "Address."

"The file's corrupted. I only have a name and a grainy picture." She tapped a few keys. "I don't know how it happened, but this file was intentionally destroyed. I think I can put it back together."

"Try your best, Saratago." He tossed his gun back on his desk. Farstall began to wheel himself to the interrogation room. "Farstall, what are you up to?" Montlet cautiously asked.

"I'm going to see if Gonstan knows anything about his brother, Clement Gonstan."

OOOO

"Clement?" Gonstan asked incredulously. "You want to know about Clement? He's gone."

Farstall leaned his forearms on the table. "What do you mean, gone?"

Gonstan sighed. "After Mom died, Clement ran away and just disappeared. Our dad was a religious fanatic. Not really into the religion, but very obsessed with the laws and punishment."

"Sounds like a real winner."

"I know, right? After Clement left, we didn't hear from him ever again. Dad damned him to hell, and that was that." Gonstan shrugged. "That was Dad."

"Harsh. Where's your father now?"

"He's dead. Been dead for about ten years now. His name was Frank Gonstan." All right. Thank you, Mr. Gonstan." Farstall made a move to leave.

"Agent!"

Farstall stopped. "Yes?"

"Why am I here? How did cybercrimes turn into talking about my brother?"

Farstall frowned slightly. "It's part of an ongoing investigation. You got netted accidentally, and you have nothing to worry about." Then he left, not waiting for a reply. As he navigated the crowded hallway, he began to wonder. By the time he made it back to Saratago's desk, he had a theory. "Saratago!"

"Currently occupied!" she replied.

Farstall ignored her. "Pull up the file on Frank Gonstan."

"No, Farstall, I won't. I'm trying to fix this image."

"Saratago, it's important!" he whined.

"Just wait."

Gleason rolled over to her terminal. "I'll look it up for you." Farstall wheeled himself over to where she was.

"What is the last activity on his record?" he asked excitedly.

Gleason scrolled down. "Uh... six years ago, he brought a property and signed up for new credit cards and a driver's license."

"I knew it! Saratago, I found Clement Gonstan!"

Saratago looked at him incredulously. "How?"

"He assumed his father's identity!"

OOOO

Clement Gonstan looked in his rear view mirror, only to see flashing lights. "Great."

Zelindo got the registration card out of the glove compartment as the car veered towards the shoulder. "I told you to slow down. Don't worry. It's just a ticket."

"Shut up," Clement growled, yanking his wallet out of his pocket.

The officer came up to the driver side window. As Clement began to roll it down, the officer said, "License and registration, sir." Clement handed them over, and the officer began to take down the information. "So, Mr... Frank Gonstan. Do you know why you were pulled over?"

"I was speeding," he replied stiffly.

Too bad this would be his undoing. Crime never pays.


End file.
